


Of Faith and Madness

by bronsautracks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post WWII, Romance, Slow Burn, Suspense, Tags Subject to Change, Thriller, asylum AU, cullen is a softie, dark!Anders, like i probably owe you an apology slow burn, like ridiculously slow burn, minimally researched historical au, priest!fenris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3434117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronsautracks/pseuds/bronsautracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is a priest sent begrudgingly to an asylum, to investigate possible demonic activity amongst three particularly volatile patients. What he discovers there is not at all what he expected, and he finds himself confronting evil of an entirely different kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: so I’m going to sort of write this with parallels to the actual dragon age story. This in mind, as I go, feel free to make suggestions of scenes you would like to see converted because I really have no direction at this point, besides my kink for naughty religious figures (I’m going to hell). eventually there will be triggers (i. e. mentions of non-con, abuse, dub-con, violence, demon-slaying (is that a trigger? Idk) etc.) so you’ve been warned. This is supposed to be a horror story with some scrumptious fenders angst and maybe hatesex mixed in. horror is something I’ve yet to explore (because i get really bad nightmares from watching something as tame as the mummy lol) so I hope you will be forgiving if that aspect is slightly understated. I know you’re all just here for the gay stuff anyway :p

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t call you Father, sir,” the woman states blandly, eyes hard and chin forward in what Fenris considered unwarranted obstinacy. “I had but one father, and he’s passed on.”  
  
“Of course,” he responds, not missing a beat. “Servants of the lord are nothing if not forgiving, ma’am.” He twitches at the urge to end the sentence with a sassy ‘my child’ instead.  
  
She relaxes, barely, arms uncrossing as she turns to lead him up the stairway. With a sigh and a small smile she says also, “Then perhaps you will forgive me the rude welcome as well. This is not your doing, after all.” She spares a glance back at him as she halts outside a large mahogany door with a small, gleaming plaque that says ‘Administrator’s Office.’  
  
“I just have my doubts about some holy warrior showing up to fend off demons. Don’t really believe in demons. Evil comes from man.” Her mouth is a thin line, eyes daring him to tell her otherwise, and hand hovering in the air by the door, not knocking yet.  
  
Fenris agrees with the latter, but says to her, “A demon can take hold of you whether or not you believe. God is your only shield against evil.”  
  
“Haven’t heard from him lately either,” she mutters, not quite rolling her eyes.  
  
Her orderly’s uniform is stiff and oversized, hugging too closely to nothing and effectively hiding any curves that may exist, her copper hair pulled back painfully tight under her white hat, but he imagines that to one who harbored desires of the flesh, she would be appealing, if for no other reason than her outright lack of approachability. Want is the human condition after all.  
  
She continues to eye him skeptically and raps three times against the door, the sound falling flat against the reflective finish. This door is the only such one in the large, barren hall. All else is white and sterile. Fenris is unused to the absence of lavish decoration in religious structures. For all the church objects to materialism, they certainly decorate their places of worship as though it were demanded by God himself.  
  
The door opens, slow and staccato, as though the person pulling it is unused to the weight.  
  
“Ah, Aveline,” a man greets cordially, from inside the office, “Is Varric back then?”  
  
“No, sir,” she responds, hands clasping behind her idly. It’s done lazily, natural, but the result is rather reminiscent of standing at attention. “The priest is here.”  
  
His eyes find Fenris behind her and blonde eyebrows shoot up in pleasant surprise. “Father Fenris, is it?” he asks, holding the door open further to allow Fenris entrance. “Please come in.”  
  
Once Fenris stands inside the office, he hears the man say quietly to the orderly, “Thank you, Aveline. Would you please inform me the moment Varric returns? There is an urgent matter that I would not be comfortable attending to without his presence.”  
  
“Of course, sir.”  
  
The man turns back now, letting the door close and with it, letting out a puff of exasperated air.  
  
“Been one of those weeks, you know?”  
  
Fenris responds with a noncommittal noise and a shrug, because he doubts he knows much about it at all. Doesn’t want to.  
  
“Please, have a seat, Father,” he tells him in a tired voice, striding around to a large metal desk, littered sparsely with various missives and files that dearly need organization. Noticing with a vague, inexplicable annoyance that it is the smaller of two desks in the office, and closer to the door, Fenris does as asked, seating himself in a small wooden chair and looking across at the man.  
  
“I’m Cullen Rutherford,” he informs Fenris with a sheepish almost-smile, plopping down into a seat, himself with the weight of one too tired to be bothered with the appearance of grace. “I’m the assistant administrator of St. Shartan’s.”  
  
At the resigned look that Fenris failed to stop in time, he continues quickly, “I’m very sorry, Father, we were not expecting you for another week at least. Unfortunately Meredith was called away for a few days.”  
  
“I see,” Fenris responds, speaking to the man for the first time. “You understand that I can perform no rituals, cleansings or exorcisms without her presence then.”  
  
“Honestly, we did not think the Cardinal would get back to us so soon.”  
  
With a rueful smile that God would frown upon, Fenris replies, “He has taken a special interest in this case.”  
  
Cullen nods and rests his chin on his fist, apparent exhaustion allowing him this small lapse in professionalism. Fenris supposes this happened fairly often to those of the clergy. Many felt more comfortable in the presence of a priest, and he doubted it was him in particular. He never made much of an effort to make people more comfortable around him. That was not his calling.  
  
“With good reason,” Cullen says when Fenris doesn’t elaborate, “The last incident had all of solitary in a frenzy.”  
  
“Solitary,” Fenris repeats the word carefully as though it might shatter in his mouth and sully him.  
  
“Right? Strange that this should happen to all seven patients at the same time when they are entirely isolated.”  
  
Fenris does not want to continue on this subject. In fact, he’d just as soon avoid the solitary confinement ward if he could.  
  
“I did some research on your institution as I traveled,” he says to divert the conversation.  
  
“Not my institution,” Cullen scoffs, but instead of petulance, Fenris suspects it’s more disapproval. He knows many men would be ashamed to work under a woman. He doesn’t sense that from Cullen.  
  
“What is your opinion on the Administrator?” Fenris asks, allowing himself to lean back, so that he could study Cullen’s reaction. Any subtlety that would alert him to a lie.  
  
He shifts uncomfortably, the casual stance reverting to a stiff, militaristic appearance that he shared with the Head Orderly, Aveline.  
  
“She is experienced,” he tells him warily, “Was a doctor overseas, tended to wounded soldiers. When she came back, she helped the survivors heal their minds. That was the original purpose of this hospital. She founded it with post-traumatic stress disorder in mind, but there are many sicknesses that fall into the mental category. Eventually she hired a diverse enough medical staff to handle them.”  
  
“I see,” Fenris breathes, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth in thought. He fidgets in his seat for a moment, constantly unnerved by the malicious energies he could feel throughout the building, had noticed before he exited the automobile. “I’m going to be honest with you,” he tells Cullen at last. “Actually, I should say I’m going to be blunt with you.”  
  
Cullen leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped, bracing himself for what Fenris has to say.  
  
“What I’ve read about the asylum’s-”  
  
“Hospital,” Cullen interjects, and Fenris’ teeth click together before he continues.  
  
“What I’ve read about the institution’s recent years is unsettling to say the least, but there are many such institutions with similar occurrences that can be chalked up to the simple fact that there are too many sick minds and not enough staff.”  
  
Cullen appears to be on the verge of objecting, so Fenris holds up a hand and presses on.  
  
“That being said, I do believe that here, at least, this is not the case.” He moves again in his chair, causing the legs to scrape against the cheap, white tile, leaving gray scuff marks in their wake. Cullen’s eyes widen as though he senses Fenris’ unease. “A majority of your staff here come from military backgrounds, correct?”  
  
Cullen bobs his head once, a stiff affirmative.  
  
“War will ravage even the strongest of human minds. Nearly all of you have spent time on the battlefield.”  
  
“And?” Cullen presses, defensive now that he’s gaged the direction.  
  
“I fear that this has created a festering, breeding ground for demonic presence. A sound mind with the best of intentions is just as capable of drawing the attention of evil, but this place has over 100 troubled minds and I suspect that the minds of at least half your staff are troubled as well.”  
  
The indignant expression on Cullen’s face did not make Fenris regret the rather frank observation.  
  
“Perhaps,” Cullen concedes. “There are certainly days when my own sanity comes into question.” He offers Fenris a wry smile, which he returns, relaxing only slightly and tapping his fingers calmly along the hand carved armrest of his chair.  
  
“I assumed I would be housed on site for my stay,” Fenris admits, and then adds, “And I expected it to be a very short one. Shall I have the church make arrangements at a hotel, instead? I can tell that you were unprepared.”  
  
“Nonsense,” Cullen says. “The nearest one is almost 20 miles. I’ll have our groundskeeper set you up in the staff dormitory.” He hesitates then, “If he ever gets back.”  
  
Fenris raises his eyebrows in question.  
  
“Whatever the case, I’ll have a room set up for you there,” he says, waving as though he were shooing the prospect from his head. “In the meantime, let’s find someone to show you around.”  
  
Fenris nearly groans aloud. He would rather see as little of this place as possible.

  


To his surprise (and relief) the main building is not included in his tour. He is first shown the small visitation center, used for when loved ones come to call. It’s connected to an activity hall, which he understands serves as some sort of recreation room for the patients. Both of these rooms are furnished nicely with plush sofas and arm chairs, coffee tables and various boardgames. In the rec. room there is a corner with a grand piano and beside it, several cases that appear to house string and woodwind instruments.  
  
Isabela, the young and saucy nurse assigned to be his guide, notices his interest and smirks.  
  
“Would you like to hear the orchestra play tonight?” she asks him, one finger going to her cheek in question. Her face: the picture of innocence, but Fenris feels what’s coming. “Tell me, Father, what does music sound like in heaven?”  
  
He doesn’t look at her when he answers, and instead runs a finger across the slightly dusty window, letting the cool glass steel him. “I wouldn’t know. Never been.”  
  
He feels her crowd in on him, not touching, but hovering. “Oh, but I know. You want to hear?” her breath comes out hot and right on the side of his neck. He hadn’t known she was so close, and he starts, putting distance between them in one, quick stride.  
  
“I can wait,” he responds firmly, still not looking, because he’s had a weakness for Latin women in the past, and he’s still the same man he was, even if he found his calling. “Why is no one here?” he asks her, noticing at last that his current discomfort is really due to the emptiness of the room. He’d had no desire to see the patients, but the utter lack of them feels wrong here. The dust on his finger triggers an alarm in his mind. It seems these rooms haven’t been used in a while. He feels a chill run up the back of his neck and isn’t soothed by Isabela’s sudden hesitation.  
  
“It’s not visiting hours,” she answers, leaning back against a couch with her hip jutting out. Fenris’ eyes are drawn to the slant of it and wonders why she is allowed such a low-cut uniform when Aveline’s was quite the opposite. “Also, it’s dinner time. Those not in solitary will be in the mess hall.”  
  
“That makes sense.” His serenity is a lie. “Perhaps you would guide me there next?”  
  
She gives him a cheeky grin, “Only if I can guide you to bed after, Your Holiness.”  
  
As she walks away out onto the grounds, an intentional sway in her hips, he follows, resisting the urge to respond, ‘I am not holy.’ 

  


He doesn’t take the tray of food offered, only a glass of water, and sits down next to Cullen at a table at the front of the room. The floor here is raised and the chairs line up only on one side. It is clearly for the orderlies and nurses to sit and observe in case of trouble. He is surprised to see an administrator, assistant or no, dining amongst the few straggling patients who’ve yet to finish their meals.  
  
“Captain!” a cheery, tall young man greets, bounding up onto the table’s stage and crouching down with his arms crossed on the surface to look Cullen in the eyes. “Fancy meeting you here!”  
  
Two alarmed orderlies appear to lunge toward him before Cullen stays them calmly.  
  
“Watch yourself, Hawke,” he says quietly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.  
  
“What’s wrong, pal?” he asks, smile going a little manic, and making him look more like he belongs here. “Think I’m out for vengeance?”  
  
Cullen’s brows knit together sternly. “Don’t threaten me, Garrett.”  
  
“Oooo, are we on a first name basis again, Cullen?”  
  
The Assistant Administrator stands up, and the patient follows his lead, each leaning over the table, hands resting in front of them.  
  
“Bethany is the only reason, you’re not in solitary with the other two, Hawke,” Cullen says, gritting his teeth.  
  
“Bethany is the only reason we’re in this mess at all,” Hawke retorts, scowling. His eyes dart out to the side and lock onto Fenris, running over his attire. The tension breaks and Hawke sighs. “Really? A priest? Anders is a doctor. You have to know that he was helping her!”  
  
Cullen’s face hardens to stone, voice coming out sharp and cold as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic.  
  
“Was a doctor, Hawke, the worst kind of doctor. Would you tell me that Merrill is in her right mind as well?”  
  
“No!” Hawke seethes, “Merrill is nuts, but that doesn’t mean that someone with the knowledge to save her should have to suffer for putting that knowledge to use.”  
  
“Ridiculous! There were at least three actual doctors near you at the time. Regardless, the decision wasn’t mine, it was Meredith’s.” Hawke is positively snarling with rage. Cullen smiles then. “Would you like me to convey your concerns to her?”  
  
“No thanks,” Hawke grumbles, backing away instantly, as though he’d been shoved. Fenris watches somewhat anxiously, noting that the atmosphere around this patient, dark and oppressive, is in severe contrast with the manner in which he speaks and acts. Other than that, he behaves rather sensibly for a lunatic, Fenris thinks, though he wonders why Cullen would speak so familiarly with him.  
  
“Please, Cullen,” Hawke begs, face crumpling slightly, “it’s been a month. Don’t you think they’ve learned their lesson?”  
  
“Not my call,” Cullen responds, face betraying no hint of sentiment. He turns to address the Head Orderly who has just walked in, and appears to be regretting it now that the Assistant Administrator has spotted her. “Aveline, escort Hawke to his room, would you? Wouldn’t want him getting lost.”  
  
“Of course, sir.” Aveline sighs, glancing briefly at the other two orderlies as though she might send one of them, but decides against it, “C’mon, Hawke, you heard the Captain.” Hawke goes with her, shoulders slumping in defeat.  
  
Fenris wants to ask Cullen about the dusty rec. room, and empty visitor’s lounge, but knows he’ll likely clam up. He’ll have to save such queries for the Administrator herself.  
  
“What is he here for?” Fenris asks, taking a sip of water and realizing his thirst only after, “I saw no signs of an obvious condition.” He takes another slightly longer drink, but resists draining the glass all at once.  
  
“Why do you ask?” Cullen demands suspiciously.  
  
Fenris swallows hard, having taken too much water into his mouth and responds, slightly pained, “I simply want to understand what constitutes insanity.”  
  
Cullen frowns and Fenris wishes that he hadn’t been too distracted by the pain of swallowing so much at once to choose his words more carefully.  
  
“Forgive me, I meant that I wish to know exactly how troubled the mind must be for the individual to be admitted here.” This time he is very careful and manages not to say ‘committed.’ He can tell that Cullen is sensitive about phrasing.  
  
“Hawke is a special case,” Cullen says with a grudging look in the direction they left, “His family is very well off, but despite this, he has a terrible compulsion to take things that don’t belong to him. Never needs the things, doesn’t even want them, really. Just wants to have them, he says.”  
  
“What’s special about that?”  
  
“He got caught, but his family’s connections won him a choice. It was treatment or jail.”  
  
“What is his treatment?” Fenris wonders.  
  
“I know little about it,” Cullen tells him, finishing the last of his meal and pushing the plate aside. “You would have to ask Dr. Orsino.”  
  
The dining room clears gradually, orderlies and nurses gently ushering the last of the patients out and to their respective rooms, and conversation with Cullen has fizzled out entirely by this point.  
  
True to her word, Isabela turns up to show Fenris to his quarters. He had held on to the tiny hope that Cullen would also be turning in and he wouldn’t be subjected to Isabela’s flirtations, but was quickly disillusioned when Cullen left in the direction of his office, explaining that he had several stacks of paperwork to fill out before the morning.  
  
Fenris would just have to be strong.  
  
He follows her outside and she slows to fall into stride with him, no longer attempting to flaunt her various assets, it seems.  
  
“Hawke has everyone’s heart here,” she says casually as if it was the most natural thing to bring up. A chilly breeze sweeps the grounds and she holds her skirt down lazily and rather ineffectively. Fenris averts his gaze. “Saw you looking at him.” There’s suggestion and accusation there that doesn’t go unnoticed.  
  
“I look at everyone,” Fenris tells her. “I have to.”  
  
He hears the smile in her tone, “Not looking at me.”  
  
“I’ve already seen what I need to.”  
  
She whistles. “You’re awfully cold for a man of God.”  
  
He can’t argue. He knows he isn’t the comfort most people are looking for, but he gets the job done, and that is his only purpose. The ice in his soul is the shield provided to him, enabling him to do the Lord’s work.  
  
Or so he tells himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fenris is sort of introduced to the patients he'll be dealing with..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: discussion of WWII and Nazis in passing. nothing too bad yet, but just in case.  
> trigger warning: possible historical inaccuracies. i did very little research.  
> trigger warning: biscuit thievery

The first night in a new environment is always difficult to say the least, but St. Shartan’s is something else entirely. It’s not so much difficult to find sleep as it is impossible. Wind whistles through the darkness outside, causing branches to beat intermittently against his small window. Leaves rustle and walls creak, and through the cacophony of sounds he is quite sure he can make out the tormented howls of nightmares plaguing the patients across the grounds. At least he hopes it’s only nightmares.

He lets his concern give over to silent prayer for the sake of those trapped with the evil here. In the pitch black of the room, speaking with the Lord lifts some of the weight of fear, and so he begins another prayer for his own strength.

He knows he needs to sleep, for tomorrow he is likely to encounter the demon he’s come here to expel, but it’s as though the place itself won’t let him. He finds comfort in the knowledge that he’s faced worse than whatever hides here. Aveline was right. The evils of men can amount to so much on their own, demons hardly ever need to make an appearance. But need and desire are two very different things, and in some cases, such as this, the opportunity is irresistible.

There is a light tapping at his door that is almost lost to the tree, tapping unceasingly against the glass of the window. By now it is too late for anyone to come calling for any purpose aside from an emergency. He flicks the switch on the table lamp by his bed after expending some effort groping around for it in the dark.

“Who is there?” he calls, rising from his cot and quickly sliding into some leggings he keeps for underclothes in this harsh cold climate. His heart quickens when there is no answer. The world seems to have gone still for just this moment. The tap sounds again, just three, loud, clear raps of the knuckle to the wood. Unmistakable.

He pauses, waiting, listening. Nothing happens for many beats of the branches outside. The wind whips against the building again and the night returns to playing its irritating symphony. It seems as if his late night visitor has given up and he slumps with relief, about to climb back into his bed.

His knee has barely hit the mattress, when again the knocking comes, and he takes a silent, steeling breath through his nose. As he approaches the door, he makes no sound. Stepping gingerly on each cold, slick panel of wood, careful not to upset the flooring in such a way to make himself known. Such apprehension would be childish, he observes, if he were in any other profession.

Fenris’ reaches out to grasp the door handle, and crosses himself with his other hand before wrenching it open and peering out into the lightless hall.

Of course, there is no one there, as he expected. Possibly a prank by some of the younger staff. Also a possibility that the demon is making an effort early on to scare him off. He acknowledges that while this is a possibility, he should be more comforted than alarmed. It would mean that whatever haunts this place is already afraid of him.

He shuts the door with a frustrated sigh, and then leans back on it. 

God is here, he tells himself. No harm will come to me, so long as I walk in His light.

His voice twists then, growing bitter quite suddenly, so that even in his own head, he doesn’t recognize it as his own.

_**God was not with you when Danarius sent you here. Why should he be with you now?** _

He shakes his head and blinks. Those thoughts would make him weak. Regardless of his past, he has to find solace in this work. 

Yes. He knows that God will follow him into battle. This is where he finds God every time. 

 

“Listen,” Cullen says to him around the biscuit he’s nicked from the kitchens on the way out to the building reserved for solitary confinement, “they don’t get any contact down there aside from meal deliveries. I’m certain you’ve dealt with similar situations in the past but we have some particularly volatile patients. It’s probably best if you don’t enter the cells under any circumstance.”

Fenris considers this for a moment before wondering suddenly, “How do you manage transporting such volatile patients between buildings?” He looks over the wide expanse of land they’re traversing as if it may give him an answer.

“They’re usually heavily sedated when outdoors,” Cullen admits grudgingly, and seems to lose his appetite for the biscuit. He chucks it to the side of the path, attracting a hungry crow. “It’s policy.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Fenris offers, trying to avoid upsetting him further.

“Indeed.”

“Although,” he adds as an afterthought, “one under the influence of demonic possession is not generally effected by sedatives. That is,” he continues when Cullen looks over at him skeptically, “if a demon who wields power enough to possess one of God’s most favored creatures, it is almost always strong enough to overpower such chemicals.”

“I see,” he concedes as they approach the steel doors, and he takes out a key, “Though I can’t say I know what you’re suggesting.”

“Just that,” Fenris says, and the thought fills him with dread, “if you have contained the demon’s plaything in this isolation of yours, it is because the demon allowed it.”

“Cullen!” he hears the voice from across the lawn, over the shouts of some upset orderlies as Cullen unlocks the door. “Cullen!”

“Ignore him,” Cullen advises sagely, “Aveline will handle him. Quickly, get inside!”  
  
But it’s too late, because Fenris has already caught sight of the blur that is Garrett Hawke sprinting across the grass towards them.  
  
“Quickly!” Cullen urges, but Fenris is just a fraction of a second too slow in heeding him. Hawke catches the door before it can be closed and shimmies inside with them.  
  
Cullen is seething quietly beside him and Fenris asks, “Should you not be heavily sedated?”  
  
He looks to Cullen for affirmation.  
  
“Yes, well, normally, but.. I’m Hawke,” Hawke answers, when Cullen stays silent.  
  
“Hawke,” Cullen says through his teeth, “So help me, I will restrain you!”  
  
“My, my, Captain,” Hawke’s eyelids lower suggestively, “I’m flattered you remember how I like it.”  
  
This makes the Assistant Administrator blush profusely, in what appears to be anger for the most part.  
  
“Cullen,” Fenris intercedes, “is there a specific reason he’s not also in solitary?”  
  
“I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t speak of it,” he says, furiously grinding his teeth.  
  
Hawke scratches his sideburn casually, “The Captain has a thing for brunettes.”  
  
“Your hair is black,” Fenris points out.  
  
“Same thing.”  
  
“Right,” Cullen says, “You might as well come too, since you’re so eager. You’ll be the easiest lock-up in history.”  
  
Hawke doesn’t respond to this, and Fenris suspects that he’s pushed his luck to the limit at last. And he knows it.  
  
Fenris realizes why the building is so small as they come to a sliding metal door. Cullen opens it to access a descending spiral stairway. It leads into absolute darkness.  
  
He resists the strong urge to swear.  
  
Hawke whistles, and it echoes eerily around the otherwise silent rotunda. Daylight pours in from the high windows, but the dark below is heavy and impenetrable.  
  
Cullen flips a switch to his left, but nothing happens. “Damn. This is why we should have waited for Varric.”  
  
“Is the power frequently out in this building?” Fenris asks, though he feels he knows the answer.  
  
Cullen seems to be preparing to descend blindly. “Only just recently,” he responds nonchalantly, as if he’s unaware of the implications. “However, our groundskeeper tends to have somewhat of a magic touch with it.”  
  
Fenris is not only hyper aware of the implications, but also hyper aware of the keening cry issuing from the abyss at the bottom of the stair. He could be imagining it, but he could also not be. He lets his legs descend behind Cullen on their own, somehow reassured by the warmth and idle chatter of Hawke at his back.  
  
He interrupts Hawke reminiscing about time spent in solitary to ask Cullen, “Do these stairs go much further?”  
  
Hawke answers him while Cullen stops to fumble along the wall, “There are multiple floors. This part of the facility was originally a link in a series of connected bunkers, during the war. They called it the Deep Roads.”  
  
Fenris shudders as a rush of cool air swoops up from the depths, leaving chills in its wake.  
  
“They don’t call it that anymore?” he asks Hawke curiously.  
  
Fenris could swear he hears the man’s casual shrug before he responds, “The southern passages were built too thin, and when they caved, this bunker was cut off from the others. There were similar difficulties with the northern tunnels as well, but that was more recent, so I haven’t really heard what went wrong.”  
  
Cullen finally finds what he was looking for, makes a small sounds of victory, and then they all flinch away from the sudden fluorescent light. The stairwell is less ominous and more clinical.  
  
“How many patients are down here?” Fenris asks, continuing down with more confidence, now that he can see.  
  
“Three.”  
  
Hawke has gone unusually silent. When he finally does speak at the bottom of the stairs, as they enter a long hall of reinforced doors, Fenris realizes why.  
  
“Can I see her, Cullen?” There is nothing playful in his voice. “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be good forever.” He sounds like a very lonely child. But Cullen is not his doting parent.  
  
“No,” is the simple answer Cullen gives. “It might have been you that got her locked down here, but her behavior is why she stayed.” Despite his valiant attempt at professionalism, he clearly regrets having to deny him. Fenris suspects that, had no one else been present, Hawke would have gotten his way. He has to wonder again at such levels of special treatment.  
  
“Cullen,” he says quietly, “If you fear this girl’s come into contact with demons, it would be a great help to have a familiar person with me when I speak to her.”  
  
He chances a glance at Hawke, whose face has lit up with so much hope that God would cry.  
  
“If..” he starts, unable to break away from the kleptomaniac’s gaze. “If it’s necessary, then.. that would be acceptable.”  
  
Hawke bites his lip hard to conceal his joy, but it does nothing.

 

“This is the observation room,” Cullen explains. He indicates a massive tower of bulky TV monitors, mounted somewhat precariously one on top of the other. Only three of which are turned on.  
  
Fenris is momentarily awestruck. Hawke immediately lunges forward, hand out to touch the glass surface of a screen. In the picture, a young woman sits on a small cot in the barest of rooms. She’s rocking gently, and her mouth might be moving, but there is no sound and the picture is not clear enough to make out her face. But Hawke knows her.  
  
“Is this closed-circuit television?” Fenris asks Cullen, partially for the sake of his own curiosity, but mostly to allow Hawke some semblance of privacy.  
  
“It is,” Cullen answers, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Have you seen it before?”  
  
“Only heard of it. It’s astounding, really.”  
  
“The Administrator only had it installed a few months ago, when she started having suspicions about demonic activity. I’m still fairly amazed by it myself.”  
  
“Should you not have someone constantly monitoring these?” he realizes after a moment.  
  
“Bartrand and Varric usually take it in shifts,” he tells him, “but they had to leave with Meredith. We send orderlies down in pairs to check on them every hour.”  
  
Fenris looks back up at the screens, with the intention of gaging the likeliness of demonic presence in each of the rooms. Instead he catches Hawke’s eye and sees tear tracks along his cheeks and jaw, disappearing into his stubble. He hears a soft sob bubble up from his lips and the man looks over his head at Cullen.  
  
“I just want to see her and hold her,” he says, pleading, his face crumpling. “She needs me, Cullen. She’s not mad.”  
  
Cullen’s voice is a valiant attempt at soothing. “I know that, Garrett.”  
  
“Then, please,” Hawke presses, desperation thickening his voice. “The loneliness will drive her insane! This is just cruel!”  
  
Fenris looks at Cullen now, who has turned his head away in silent denial.  
  
“Surely he can go in with me?” Fenris queries, at a loss for the reason he too wants to give special treatment to this patient.  
  
“Of course,” Cullen agrees. “But that won’t happen until Meredith returns. I’ve no say in the matter.”  
  
“I see,” he says, and doesn’t have the will to look back at Hawke. The room is silent for a short while, but for his sniffling and hiccups.  
  
Cullen sighs. “Come on, Hawke. We should get you out of here.”  
  
“Going to lock me up?” he bites out bitterly, fingers curling in fiercely against the monitor as though he could reach in and grab her, if only he pushed hard enough.  
  
“No,” Cullen replies, trying hard not to sound hurt. “You know I would never allow that.”  
  
“Then I’m staying here.”  
  
As he says it, the lights flicker and all three of the screens dim momentarily.  
  
Fenris reels back when the most central monitor flickers back on, its subject now directly in front of the camera, and standing eerily still, when he had been sleeping in his cot only a second ago.  
  
Cullen leans down to see what startled him.  
  
“Ah,” he says, understandingly. “Anders is a very light sleeper. The power outage must have woken him up.”  
  
“Why is he looking at us?”  
  
“I’m not sure he knows we’re here,” Cullen admits. “He just does that sometimes. But there’s no telling if he does it when no one’s actually observing.”  
  
“But what does it accomplish?” Fenris asks, a shiver wracking him briefly.  
  
“He was a doctor—”  
  
“ _Is_ a doctor,” Hawke interjects, prompting a cold look from the Assistant Administrator.  
  
“He was a Nazi Doctor during the war. Since he arrived here, he’s used certain.. tactics to make the staff uncomfortable.”  
  
“I see,” Fenris nods. “So you think it’s unlikely that he is possessed?”  
  
“I can’t say that, but I will say that this behavior isn’t a direct result of possession,” he says. “Anders is just an evil man.”  
  
If Hawke has something to say to that, he’s quite literally biting his tongue not to say it.  
  
“How about her?” Fenris points to the third screen, where a girl sits on the ground, in what appears to be a state of meditation.  
  
“That’s Merrill,” Cullen says, “she’s relatively harmless as far as I can tell.”  
  
“Oh yes,” Hawke sneers, finally breaking away from the TV to violently wipe at his face, “harmless if you can forget that it’s her fault my sister is locked up in a cell! Just because she’s an idiot, doesn’t mean she’s harmless!”  
  
“Hawke,” Cullen starts sternly. “It’s time for you to go.”  
  
Hawke stands resolutely, arms folded like a petulant child.  
  
“Father Fenris, I’m going to escort him back up,” Cullen grasps one of Hawke’s biceps and jerks him towards the door. “If you wish to speak to them at all, the intercom system is fairly straightforward.”  
  
Hawke is digging his heels into the ground and looking to Fenris for help.  
  
“Please, let’s just go Hawke,” Cullen begs under his breath, tugging hard at his arm, “I don’t want to sedate you again..”  
  
This makes Hawke relatively more pliant.  
  
As they’re finally leaving, Cullen calls back over his shoulder, “Lunch should be served in about an hour. I’ll send Aveline down for you.”  
  
“Thanks,” Fenris replies absently, though he doubts Cullen hears.  
  
He finds himself alone. As though he knows, the Nazi Doctor turns his attention elsewhere immediately as the door shuts.  
  
The mic for the intercom sits in front of him, and he’s familiar with the use of them, but he feels vulnerable now that Cullen and Hawke have left.  
  
He checks the number on the screen for Hawke’s sister’s room. 107.  
  
Fenris holds down the button for 107 and imagines the static sounds of the com from her side as she shoots out of bed before he says a word. She climbs a chair in the corner to get her face closer to it.  
He clears his throat, nervous suddenly.  
  
“Hello,” he greets her.  
  
A bit of white noise from her end before she says, “Carver? Garrett? Is that you?”  
  
“No ma’am,” he informs her and sees her slouch slightly in disappointment. “I am Father Fenris.”  
  
“Are you here to—” A loud crackling cuts her off and her screen turns to snow and lines.  
  
When he tries to use the intercom again, his ears are overwhelmed by feedback. He quickly steps away and reaches over to pound on the monitor, in case that might bring the picture up again.  
  
“Oh shit!” someone says from behind him. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were down here.”  
  
He looks round to find a stout and bearded man looking up at him.  
  
“The system might be down for a few minutes,” he says. “My brother’s helping me with some repairs.”  
  
“Are you Varric?” Fenris asks him, realizing that this might mean the Administrator’s returned early.  
  
“Nope,” he tells him lightly, but with a grumpy little frown under his mustache. “I’m Bartrand.”  
  
“I see,” Fenris replies. “Sorry for the confusion.”  
  
“It’s alright. You’re the priest, I take it,” he states, doesn’t ask, as he hefts a box of tools onto the desk. A pen clatters onto the linoleum, but no one moves to pick it up.  
  
“I suppose I should come back another time..” Fenris ponders, feeling somewhat relieved, though he’d never admit it. There’s a tension in his shoulders that’s climbing behind his eyes.  
  
Bartrand leans his short, stocky body against the metal frame of the desk, considering him for a moment.  
  
“Yer funny lookin’ for a priest,” he motions around his own chin and head, clearly referencing Fenris’ hair and tattoos. He can only be surprised that it took this long for anyone to comment.  
  
The practiced reply rolls from his tongue, smooth as silk. Not a lie, because it’s always taken as a joke, and then they leave it alone.  
  
“I saw a ghost.”  
  
Bartrand laughs, but lets it go, like they all do, and offers to walk Fenris back up. He accepts gratefully, because he knows he’d be lost if he went on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: so i'm sorry because i got distracted by the endless troubles of the hawke family, and once again there is very little anders this chapter, in fact you probably can't even count it, so... i warned you about the slow burn right? it's more like.. slowly getting gassed to death. not even lit yet, but when it does... anyways i came up with a plot for this, which i wasn't expecting, soooooo hope you like some story with your hateful smooches? i'm sorry, i swear to the maker that the next chapter will include some delicious dark!anders and a confused!fenris and it probably won't take so long c:


End file.
